The scent of scorched leather and blood still hung in the air as Freya wiped her bloodied face with the back of her sleeve.
Her crimson eyes glowed faintly in the low moonlight, still tinged with the afterglow of violence, power—and the satisfaction of vengeance.
"Let's see what you meatheads were carrying," she muttered, moving through the gear and supplies scattered around the corpses.
She rummaged quickly, her small hands efficient and practiced. The orcs' gear was crude—iron-studded belts, jagged knives, moldy jerky, and gods-awful-smelling gourd-brew that nearly made her gag.
"Ew. Orc moonshine. I'd rather gargle swamp water."
She shoved it aside and reached into the second pack. Her fingers brushed parchment—coarse, thick, and folded with surprising care. It felt like a scroll.
Her brows rose.
She pulled it free and unrolled it.
A map.
Hand-drawn, ink-splotched, and frayed at the edges, but unmistakably a map.
Freya's eyes scanned the crude markings, her brow furrowing. Jagged symbols marked territories—crude icons for orc camps, rivers, caves, and something larger in the east… a ring of spiked lines surrounding what looked like a fortress. Or maybe a castle?
She tapped it thoughtfully.
"This... isn't just some scout's doodle," she murmured. "These are troop movements. Supply lines..."
She frowned. "Are they planning to attack somewhere?"
"Maybe they're targeting that fortress—castle—thing on the map," she muttered, squinting at the inked lines.
She ran a clawed fingertip along the spiked circle drawn around the structure.
The ink was darker here, applied with more care. Whoever had drawn this hadn't just scribbled it—they'd emphasized it. Marked it as important.
Strategic, maybe. Or sacred.
A ripple of realization struck her.
Her eyes flicked to the western edge of the parchment. That was where she was now, near a crude 'X' scrawled in ochre ink. Probably the outpost these orcs had been part of. Which meant—
She traced a route eastward with her fingertip. Three other orc encampments were marked along the way, plus a branching symbol that looked like… a shrine?
Freya tilted her head. "Is this some kind of warpath?"
Behind her, bones clattered softly. Gulan stood still, silent, his empty sockets fixed on her. The eerie blue flames that burned where his eyes should be flickered slightly.
"Grant," she said absently, still studying the map, "that fortress—castle drawing in the east, do you think it's human?"
The skeleton didn't reply, naturally, but she appreciated the illusion of conversation.
She rolled the map up carefully and tucked it into her cloak.
"We need to move. Before more of them show up."
A pause. She glanced around the campsite.
"…After I loot the rest of their crap."
She crouched again, this time more thoroughly. Bits of metal—mostly copper, a few silver fangs—some dried meat, a half-melted obsidian idol of some crude god, and a blood-stained charm made of knotted fur and bone shards.
She sighed. "This really is crap. Literal crap."
She tossed everything into the fire pit and stood up, brushing off her skirt.
"Alright, Grant. Let's make our way east."
Her crimson eyes gleamed.
"Let's see what fate has in store for us..."
Two days later, Freya was already sick of the road.
The jungle had given way to uneven plains and scrub-dotted hills, and her feet were caked in mud. The morning sun filtered through gray clouds, casting everything in a dull light that matched her mood.
She paused beside a gnarled tree, pulled out the map, and sighed."Someone really ought to teach those damn orcs how to draw. This freaking map is totally inaccurate."
She glanced over at Grant, who stood a few paces away like a silent sentry.
"I bet you could draw better. After all, you do have eighteen intelli..." She paused. "No, wait, we leveled up, right?"
"Let's check our status."
Name: Freya Constantin
Race: Highborn Demon
Level: 4
Racial Trait: [Blood Drain – Lv.2]
Bound Weapon: [Reaper's Scythe – Lv.2]
Strength: 35
Agility: 40
Intelligence: 51
Skills: [Fangs – Lv.2], [Bat Swarm – Lv.1], [Dark Magic – Lv.1], [Haste – Lv.1], [Intimidation – Lv.1]
"What?"
"Only one level from two orcs?"
"And no new skills? Seriously?"
Disappointment tightened her brow. She sighed. "I miss Mr. Wolfie and Mr. Tiger. They were so generous."
"What about you? What did you get, Sir Bonehead?"
Soulfire flickered, and his status panel popped up:
Name: Grant
Race: Undead
Level: 14
Racial Trait: [Undying – Lv.2]
Bound Weapons: [Bone Blade – Lv.6], [Bone Shield – Lv.5]
Strength: 36
Agility: 32
Intelligence: 27
Skills: [Tenacity – Lv.3], [Harden – Lv.6], [Regeneration – Lv.5]
Combat Skill: [Sword & Shield Mastery – Lv.2]
"Wow... three level-ups?"
"And your intelligence is 27 now?"
"That means you're getting +3 to all stats for every level..."
"And mine is +5. Maybe that's why my level growth is slower—I need more EXP."
"Haha, never thought the law of conservation of energy applied here too."
The blue flames in Grant's skull flickered lazily, as if he were trying to laugh with her.
Freya rolled the map back up, stretched, and brushed dead leaves off her skirt.
Her gaze drifted eastward, hesitation creeping in.
The road ahead was little more than a game trail, lined with broken stones and crushed grass.
"Are we even on the right track?"
"Should we move on?"
Before Grant could react, her stomach grrred softly.
She scowled.
"It's about time. I haven't fed in two days."
Freya still went east eventually.
Mr. Wolfie's hide clung damply to her frame, heavy with dew and the scent of old blood. She tugged it tighter around her shoulders anyway.
The chill wasn't physical—she barely felt cold anymore—but it matched the gnawing emptiness in her gut.
The wind dragged across the empty plains, whispering through dry grass and stirring the low mist that clung to the earth like ghostly breath.
Her feet sank with every step, caking her ankles in mud the color of old soup. Each squelch made her fangs itch.
"I swear, if I don't eat something soon, I'm gonna start chewing on your bones, Sir Bonehead," she muttered, glancing sideways.
The skeleton clacked along behind her without complaint, his bony feet leaving perfectly dry, dainty prints in the mud. Showoff.
Freya scowled. Her tongue tasted stale copper—residual blood from the last kill, which hadn't done her any favors. Chickens. Rabbits. Wild boars. All snack-tier mobs with zero EXP value.
She pulled out the map for the third time in ten minutes, her claws greasy with sweat and god-knew-what else. She squinted at the scribbles, tracing her position.
"Okay… we passed the cracked hill, avoided the not-a-river, and if this mess means what I think it is—"
A sharp grunt echoed up ahead.
Freya froze. Her ears twitched.
Another grunt. A chuckle. Low, guttural. Orcish.
She dropped flat into the wet grass, motioning Grant down with a sharp hiss. He obeyed instantly, melting into the shadows beside a half-fallen tree.
Two figures appeared just ahead, lumbering along the trail without a care in the world.
One carried a massive club slung over his shoulder, its head stained with something red and crusty.
The other was chewing a length of dried meat, speaking between mouthfuls in slurred, idiot Orc-speak.
Freya watched them from the grass, lip curling.
"Look at these two," she whispered. "Strolling around like they're not about to die."
She waited, letting them draw closer—closer—until the stench hit her like a punch. Sweat, smoke, and meat gone sour. She gagged.
Then she moved.[Haste]
In a blur of motion, Freya shot forward like a shadow in the wind. The closer orc barely had time to blink.
SHUNK.
The Reaper's Scythe sent the orc's head flying before he knew it.
Freya made a quick rotation in mid-air, and tried to land a second blow.
The second orc turned, just in time to parry. Sparks flew as metal clanked, but the sheer force of the Reaper's Scythe drove him to his knees."
"Hu—"
That was all he got out before Grant surged from the mist, shield slamming into the orc's face like a battering ram. The blow lifted him clean off his feet and into a nearby boulder.
Before he could slide down, Grant's bone blade punched into his ribs, severing heart and spine in one decisive thrust.
Silence.
Freya straightened, brushing a stray fleck of blood off her cheek. Her crimson eyes glowed faintly in the gloom.
"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about." she murmured.
She crouched beside the corpse of the first orc, inspecting his still-warm body.
Her hunger stirred again. With a faint sigh, she leaned down and sank her fangs into his neck.
The blood filled her mouth—hot, thick, with a bitter aftertaste like charcoal and old sweat.
She drank deeply, hoping—praying—for that familiar surge of power.
But there was none.
Freya pulled away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Ugh. Still nothing."
She stood, spitting a red glob into the grass. "Tastes like regret."
Grant stood silently over the second corpse. The blue flames in his eyes flickered calmly, patiently. And he didn't go for the bones either. Like he was not interested at all.
Freya pulled out the map again and knelt beside a dry patch of stone. She scanned the markings, then tapped a jagged symbol not far from their current location.
"There. An outpost."
"That's where they came from."
Her eyes narrowed.
"And if these two were out on patrol… that means there's more. Much more."
She rolled up the map, slid it under Mr. Wolfie's hide, and cracked her neck.
"Well, Sir Bonehead," she said, flashing a grin. "Let's go there and check out the place, shall we?"
"Maybe they serve high level orcs for dinner there."